


We Find Love

by courtneythenerd



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 03:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneythenerd/pseuds/courtneythenerd
Summary: "Drama was my name, remember?"Slowly, hesitantly, Zeke gently touches Shao’s fingers with his own.“I thought it was ‘Fantastic.’”





	We Find Love

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic inspired by Daniel Caesar's "We Find Love."

_A kung-fu master, gun blaster/High-kicking, fast-spinning spell-caster._

Zeke stops writing and bites his lip. He furiously erases the words, leaving pink shreds of eraser all over the now-worn paper. Zeke stares at the shadow of words past, ones that he’d obliterated before trying again. He can make out three of the faint gray lines. Everything else is a blur.

 

Zeke starts to swing his foot back and forth as he writes again. The back of his ankle hits the leg of the old arm chair he’s designated as his “inspiration spot.” He bought it off an old abuelo who’d had a yard sale in Zeke’s old neighborhood. The old papi had been more than happy to give Mr. Books a piece of furniture; he was amazed that Mr. Books would even think of coming to the Bronx instead just shopping on Saxs like every other rich person.

 

“You back, man,” the old salesman had kept saying, “You really back, man.”

 

Yeah. Back. It’s not like Zeke could be anywhere else. 10 years, 5 albums, and 2 gold plaques later, New York is still the only place Zeke can lay his head. It was all he could to do to stay in Manhattan, to not ask that old man for all the furniture and all the brownstones in the Bronx, too. Zeke had always thought it was a prison, but the Bronx was home.

 

But it’s not like it was ever _Zeke’s_ prison. Not really.

 

Zeke bangs the back of his ankle on the chair and flinches. Shit, time to try again.

 

_No fairytales, no disco/Our lives had gone tragic/But baby, through all of that/You was still magic_

 

Zeke erases so hard that he tears right through the paper.

 

10 years, 5 albums, 2 gold plaques, 1 failed marriage, and a lot of  attempts to love any and everyone else later, all Zeke’s songs are still about him.

\--

“Kiiiiiiing Shaoooooooo!”

 

Shao would love to listen to the words if he was actively trying to tune them out. He loves that the crowd loves him--he always does. But the crowd is too loud, too much background noise. They can’t hear the music if they’re too busy cheering.

 

And Shao ain’t spinning if no one is hearing it. Not anymore.

 

The crowd is paying some attention, though, because they go wild when Shao starts scratching “Bring the Pain.” For a song that just came out, Shao swears that it’s already everybody’s favorite. But, then again, he likes to think that just his magic working. Method Man’s super cool; Shao’s even produced a couple of tracks for him. So it’s not like Shao’s hating for anything. He just likes other rappers better.

 

Shao likes that Nas cat a lot. His voice is nice.

 

“King Shao!” the announcer calls. The feedback from the mic is still no match for the roaring crowd. “Give ‘em some of that old school!”

 

Shao beams up at the announcer, throwing up a thumbs up. As soon as he has a moment to duck his head, he rolls his eyes. “Old school” is still not a phrase that Shao’s a fan of. Shao will openly admit to never thinking he’d live to see 34 years old; he often says he feels much, much older. But these kids are out here considering Grandmaster Flash “old school” even though the shit is barely a decade old. Hearing these 18, 19, and 20 year olds say that just makes Shao feel ancient, man.

 

He can’t complain too much, though: at least it gives Shao a chance to play his older mentor’s song. It’s the strongest connection Shao has to Grandmaster, now. It’s the _only_ connection Shao has.

 

Shao spins “The Message” and some kids start to “pop lock” or whatever the fuck they try to call it. Shao stops himself from jeering: the kid’s whack, but he’s having _fun._ Somebody probably thought Shao was whack back then, too.

 

They were wrong, of course. Shao and his brothers could have never been whack. They were all heart and soul, all light and love.

 

Until they weren’t.

\--

Mylene would’ve said “I told you so.”

 

Zeke is positive she would’ve. Part of the reason they couldn’t stay married is because the idea of coming anywhere near New York again sent her into a rage. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, especially not wounds that deeply clawed into the body. When Zeke and Mylene’s divorce was finalized, she immediately went back to California to live with Yolanda.

 

“There’s _nothing_ there! Nothing you can fix, Zeke!” Mylene had said during one of their last arguments. “There’s no point in going back!”

 

Zeke’s starting to wonder if she had been wrong, after all.  Zeke’s home is full of ghosts that won’t stop haunting him. Even his condo in Manhattan can’t exorcise the demons they chase him through the streets.

 

Zeke paces the shiny marble floor, imploring his mind to give him some peace. The good memories mingle with the bad: bright red lines of joy get tackled in with the overwhelming darkness and trash of alleyways. The colors turn muted, dirty-looking and ugly.

 

Boo found a happily ever after in Chicago, with Napoleon of all people. Dizzee and Thor have spent almost their entire relationship traveling the world, being free. Only person who stayed around is Ra, but, as Zeke’s business manager, he pretty much had to.

 

Shao’s still around. Zeke knows that much. According to the streets, Shao is a king. Zeke always knew he would be, even if he refused to say it that night. Even if he said the exact opposite.

\--

The kids are cool, Shao’s decided. They’re a little rushed and over-excited, but they’re cool.

 

Shao sits back on the makeshift bleachers at the park, watching an impromptu rap battle. Potentially good rhymes get spat out too fast for Shao’s liking; everyone’s in a rush. But the crowd of burgeoning musicians that have formed around them don’t notice or care. They’re all hopped up on promises of what the future could mean for them. Every once in awhile, Shao will catch one of them glancing over at him with a gleam in their eyes. Shao always smiles and nods encouragingly and tries not to laugh when one of them misses a beat or drops a line.

 

They’re princes who are dying to show the world that they can be kings, too. Shao can’t let that feeling be snuffed out.

 

Across the way, somebody brings out a radio and cranks it up as loud as it can go. Stuttering freestylers trip their way into silence to listen.

 

“In honor to celebrate the official return of the Bronx’s own Mr. Books, here’s ‘Get Down!’”

 

Shao closes his eyes. “Mr.” is a goofy addition to Book’s name. Sounds like something Ra would’ve come up with to sound “professional” or whatever. Shao can almost see the look on Books’s face as he’s being told he’s getting a “Mr.” added to his name.

 

The sound isn’t goofy, though. Zeke’s voice is somehow rougher and deeper than Shao’s ever heard it. Zeke’s voice was always a surprise to Shao: this soft-hearted, baby-faced dude with the voice of a chain-smoker.  But it never distracted from the words. Zeke’s words . . . Zeke’s words were life-changing.

 

_No bust downs could touch our crowns! Everyone else falls, but we get down!_

 

Shao smiles to himself. They were kings for a time. A wild ass, scary time where death literally chased them around every street corner. But, someway or another, they survived. And they were kings, too. The wordsmith and conductor. The South Bronx belonged to them, and they belonged to each other.

 

Shao longs for them to belong to each other again.

\--

 

This performance is a bad idea. Zeke knows it.

 

He’s never been this damn nervous. The pit of his stomach feels like it’ll dislodge and crawl up his throat if he moves too much. Zeke feels his legs shaking, and his heart feels like it’ll bruise the inside of his chest. It’s like he’s a damn kid again.

 

“Zeke? Zeke!” Ra reaches out steadies Zeke with his hands. “Breathe, man.”

 

“Can’t.”

 

“Yes, you can. Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking.”

 

Zeke would laugh if he wasn’t busy dying on the inside. This is a ritual with them. Zeke says something he can’t do, and Ra argues with him.

 

Zeke slams his eyes shut. Ra squeezes his shoulders.

 

“I should’ve called first.”

 

“You don’t have his number.”

 

“I should’ve come to see him first.”

 

“You don’t have his address.”

 

“I should’ve picked a different club.”

 

“If you had, I would’ve called you a punk.”

 

Zeke’s eyes fly open just in time to hear his name being called.

 

\--

 

Shao should go. He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve lied and said he was sick or had another gig or something. He shouldn’t be sitting on the other side of the stage, watching a man he never thought he’d see again swagger onto stage.

 

He shouldn’t be tuning out the screaming crowd in favor of hearing Books’s voice. He shouldn’t flinch at just how close, how _real_ it sounds to Shao. He shouldn’t think about the fact they are physically closer now than they have been in years. Shao shouldn’t want to be closer.

 

It’ll be over soon, though. Shao knows that much. In a few minutes, Books will finish another song, walk off the stage and away from Shao, just like he did all those years ago.

 

It’s the last song. It’ll be over soon. And not matter what Shao thought he wanted a few weeks ago, he knows it’s better this way. Maybe they were never meant to last a lifetime. Maybe . . .

 

_Shaolin is my heart._

 

\--

 

There, he said it. All the lines Zeke had written and erased were summed up in one. And he just said it front of everyone. In front of Shaolin.

 

Zeke doesn’t wait for the crowd to start demanding encores. He doesn’t wait for handlers to carefully help him out of the mic and jacket: he rips them off. He doesn’t wait for Ra to try to catch up to him. Zeke rushes into the dressing room and slams the door. He falls onto the couch and tosses an arm over his eyes.

 

Zeke takes deep, shuddery breaths and wonders why he thought he could unbreak his own heart.

 

\--

 

Security let him through. Maybe they recognize him as King Shao, the producer. Or hell, maybe they recognize him as the man their boss just said was his heart. Either way, they let Shao walk right by them.

 

There’s a small voice in the back of Shao’s head that tells him that he still has time to leave. That he doesn’t _have_ to fall all the way back in love with Zeke Figuero. That Shao’s too old for all of this shit.

 

Shao opens the door.

 

\--

The floor moves beneath Zeke’s feet as he stands.

 

“Hey.”

 

Shao’s chest tightens.

 

“Hey.”

 

Zeke’s eyes are still too big for his face. Shao still looks like he’s up to no good.

 

Shao takes walks over to Zeke; they’re suddenly the closest they’ve ever been in their entire time knowing each other. Zeke can count every lash on Shao’s eyes. It’s still not close enough.

 

Shao’s pulse causes him to laugh nervously. The sound is better than any fucking Zeke’s ever played.

 

“So . . . you still dramatic as fuck, huh?”

 

It’s Zeke turn for terrified laughter.

 

“Yep,” Zeke says. “Just like you still all up in my space, right?”

 

“Aye, now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t ever remember you having a problem with that.”  

 

“Just like _I_ don’t remember _you_ having a problem with drama.”

 

Shao’s eyes roam all over Zeke’s face. All these years later, Shao still has to look up at him. Some things just never change.

  
“Drama was my name, remember?”

 

Slowly, hesitantly, Zeke gently touches Shao’s fingers with his own.

 

“I thought it was ‘Fantastic.’”

 

Shao grins and laces their fingers together.

 

“You damn right, it was.”

 

They have hours of questions to ask each other. 10 years have gone uncharted, and they’re both grown now. They’re King Shao and Mr. Books, two men who need to relearn each other.

 

But all of that can come later. They have time. For right now, all they have to worry about the feeling of chest against chest and lips against lip.

 

Two kings who belong to each other again.


End file.
